


til valhalla

by jjxneus



Category: ONEUS (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst, Betrayal, Blood, Blood and Injury, Character Death, Death, Friendship, Hurt No Comfort, It's a bit ambiguous whether or not it's requited, Major Character Injury, References to Norse Religion & Lore, Stabbing, Unrequited Love, impalement technically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:41:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25733032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jjxneus/pseuds/jjxneus
Summary: He’s dying. The realisation comes to him slowly, gradually, painlessly.But as he lies there staring up at the face of the only man he still truly trusted with all his heart, he finds that he doesn’t mind as much as he should.
Relationships: Kim Geonhak | Leedo/Kim Youngjo | Ravn
Comments: 6
Kudos: 31





	1. The King Is Dead

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [the second set of Leedo LIVED concept pictures](https://twitter.com/official_ONEUS/status/1291026205483835393?s=20) that just dropped a few hours ago as well as the fact that [Youngjo is the only one we've seen so far with a weapon](https://twitter.com/official_ONEUS/status/1290301432663429120?s=20) AND [his 'Dream' version image is VERY different to everyone else's.](https://twitter.com/official_ONEUS/status/1290210826247274498?s=20)
> 
> I don't know if it means anything but it sure did inspire this fic!

He’s faintly aware of the blood, seeping into his shirt and pooling beneath him. It’s cold as the air chills him, but the blood is so warm. It’s wet, Geonhak thinks to himself, grimacing as he accidentally places his hand in the growing puddle. Funnily enough, the only thing that’s really coming to his mind is what a mess it’ll be to clean out of his white shirt later. 

He doesn’t laugh. 

There’s a light shining somewhere above him, it comes through the large glass ceiling above the throne. _Ah, that’s right, that’s where he is_. His vision blurs then clears again. His back aches - _probably because you’re sprawled out on the steps_ , his brain helpfully tells him. 

He manages a breathless coughed out laugh this time. 

The marble beneath him is probably ruined. When he tilts his head back, he can just barely make out the dark wood of the throne, still elegant and magnificent. A silent witness. Beyond that is the light, a pulsing glow of white and gold, and if he squints he can almost make out the shapes of feathers fading in and out of view. 

It’s funny; he could have sworn it was night. 

He remembers the steps beneath him with clarity all throughout his life. He used to run up and down them, stretching his legs out as far as he could to take them one at a time, then two, then three. He would trip and stumble, fall all the way back down, but there was always someone there to help him back up - like a guardian angel. He can’t recall their face through the haze that has descended on his mind. 

Then life had moved on, and the burden of the crown began to loom over his shoulders like a constant cloud. He remembers sitting on these very steps, his head tilted back until it rested on the seat of the throne and he got a clear view of the sky up above. The moon had bathed him in its glow countless nights, and he would have spent many more hours in that position if he hadn’t had responsibilities to attend to. 

Prince Geonhak had never had any time for friendships or love and _King_ Geonhak had had even less. 

Advisors came and went. They earned his trust and he foolishly opened both his arms and his heart to them. Deep down he knows compassion is not weakness, but he hates his vulnerability all the same. He had been trained for success but none had ever cared for him beyond his title and position as royalty. The fragile pieces of his shattered trust had dug into his flesh like glass as all those he loved left him behind, abandoning him to the wolves and the darkness. 

All except one. 

The pool of blood has flowed down to his pants now, soaking through the fabric with ease and making him let out a pathetic wheezing excuse for a groan. His earrings lightly swing against his face as he turns his head to look around. Geonhak still sees nothing. Nothing but an expanse of white marble and ornate banners displaying his family crest. The stained glass windows are dull and dim - it’s odd. Why is there a light above him yet not through those windows? 

His eyes fall on a dark blurry shape a metre or so away on the ground. He reaches his arm out sluggishly, the muscles feeling too heavy and weak as he slaps it against the ground in a sad attempt to reach the blurry shape. He stretches his fingers out as far as he can. He can’t tell what it is yet, but his gut tells him he should have it with him even if he doesn’t know why. He grunts as he struggles in vain, letting the weight of his arm collapse against the cold floor. There’s an odd noise from something in front of him, just down from the stairs that he’s sprawled across. It’s familiar but strange all at once. 

He blinks and the shape comes into focus. A crown. The crown. _His_ crown. He rolls his head back until he’s looking up once more. He should sit up, he should _try_ to sit up, he should _start_ trying to sit up. 

He doesn’t move. 

There’s no pain. Only discomfort. Why does his chest feel weird? He lifts his head up from the floor, choking as his vision blurs again. He blinks rapidly and squints (he really should wear his glasses more) and lifts one hand to sweep it down the front of his chest. He manages a low guttural ‘guh’ as his gaze finally focuses and his hand slaps against cold metal. There’s a pole going right through his torso- A spear. Oh. 

He’s dying, isn’t he? 

That would explain a lot. His gaze follows the shaft up from where it pierces his chest all the way to where there’s still a hand grasping it. A hand that isn’t his own; a hand that belongs to someone very much alive. 

Kim Youngjo. 

Geonhak would recognise that hand and those ring-adorned fingers anywhere. He’d recognise his _best friend_ anywhere. There’s a fluttering in his chest now, an odd sort of warmth spreading its way through his stomach where he’s not sure if it’s the blood or if it’s all in his head. But Youngjo is here, he thinks, and everything will be alright. 

The one person who had seen Geonhak as a friend first, a fellow writer second, and royalty third. With his bright eyes and brighter smile, Youngjo had always stayed by his side through everything. They had grown up together, fought side by side, they knew each other better than anyone else, and sometimes he was convinced that Youngjo knew him better than even he knew himself. He trusted him, he trusted no one else but him. 

The glowing light above him shines brighter, as if the very sky was opening up with golden rays. Youngjo’s face swims into view, looming over him like a cloud; but the kind that always knew how to make Geonhak blush and smile so hard that his eyes became crescent moons. The way the mysterious light continues to glow makes Youngjo look like an angel and it all clicks together in Geonhak’s mind. _Youngjo_ is his guardian angel, always was and always will be. He had been there to help him back up every time he fell and every time he was pushed. Their bond was unbreakable. There’s more feathers falling from the ceiling now- The feathers- surely those were from his angel’s wings, here to save him once again. 

Prince Geonhak had never had any time for anything. He had never fallen in love but, he realises slowly and then all at once, he might have. His brain fills with static. It jumps from memory to memory of the way he stares at Youngjo in the sunlight, admires him in the moonlight, and the way his heart had always beaten faster when the other man was around. The sound of Youngjo’s laugh is so engraved in Geonhak’s mind that he could recall it with perfect precision. The way he smiles so clear and vivid that he could probably trace it with his eyes closed. If only he had realised sooner just how deep his affection for the other man had run. But it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay. There’s time, they have time. 

Youngjo is here, he thinks again, and everything will be alright. Youngjo is- 

Youngjo is twisting the spear. 

Youngjo is driving it deeper into his chest. 

Youngjo is- _beautiful_. Despite the truth and gravity of the situation, he looks handsome and elegant even with blood stained fingers. _Oh god_ , Geonhak loves him. 

Words spill from his lips as his body grows colder in the pool of blood - _his_ blood, he’s lying in his own blood, soaked with it. He should be more afraid than he is, more upset, more angry. He feels none of those things. He knows it will change nothing, but he used to wear his heart on his sleeve, and old habits die hard. 

“I should have told you,” he whispers. Youngjo just stares. 

The golden light fades to a deep blue, as if a drop of ink had been dropped in a pond, the cloud of it unfolding and spreading out across the surface. He’s not sure how much of what he’s seeing is real and how much is the _dying_ playing tricks on his eyes. But he knows he sees a swooping pegasus and a burning sun, and then for a moment they’re gone and the blue seeps in. The moon shines down on him, as if the sight of it is one last gift from the universe to him. He blinks, eyelids heavy, and the dark sky is gone. The light returns. 

“I was always so scared, too scared, to say anything.” The words flow out now, frantic and desperate. “I love you. I’m _in_ love with you. I think I always have been.” 

Youngjo doesn’t say anything. His expression is unreadable. Geonhak lets his head fall back against the ground with a soft thunk, his cheeks oddly wet. He feels exhausted, wanting nothing more than to bask in this strange golden light. This is okay, he thinks, this is alright. A warm hand cradles his cheek before a soft kiss is pressed to his forehead. He smiles up at Youngjo. 

And the Valkyries arrive. 


	2. Long Live The King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Youngjo takes his place.

He's dead. 

Youngjo pulls away slowly, his fingertips lingering for just a second longer as he brushes them against the corner of Geonhak's lips. 

King Geonhak is dead. Long live the king. 

He takes a shaky breath in, the blood still slick against his hands as he resists the urge to wipe it off on his clothes. Even in death, Geonhak looks stunning; eyes lifeless but still bright and hopeful and the moonlight highlights the angles of his cheekbones and his jaw. 

Youngjo can't breathe. 

He takes a step back, boots almost slipping in the large pool of blood that continues to spill out of the corpse before him. It's going to be absolute Hel to clean. One of his hands is still clutching his spear, knuckles white as he slowly wraps the fingers of his other hand around the cold metal too. He blinks, he swallows thickly, he thinks there's the slightest hint of copper on his tongue. He pulls hard, tugging the spear out and stumbling back a few steps until he rests it against the ground to stabilise himself. The force of his movements has jolted Geonhak's body, sliding it down a few steps and making it curl up in what would have been an uncomfortable position if he were still alive. 

Youngjo removes a hand from his spear, head spinning as he steps forward with purpose. The only sound that echoes throughout the throne room is his heavy breathing punctuated by the metal clink of his spear against the marble floor every few seconds. He stands beside where Geonhak's head lies, eyes still open and unseeing, the ghost of a smile still present on his lips. Youngjo sits down a step above him. 

He rests his spear against a step and it stands as tall and proud as he should feel. The bloodied head shines beneath the white light of the moon. It mocks his victory. He should feel triumphant, or at least a sick sense of smugness. 

He feels nothing. 

The throne sits behind him, observing him silently, waiting. He looks down, staring at the way Geonhak's body is curled away from him, his pristine white blouse now stained a deep crimson. Perhaps if he stares long enough, he can convince himself those are simply red roses blooming across the king's chest and back. The king… Youngjo's brain stutters to a stop, there's a ringing in his ears that blurs out into one long continuous noise like a bright red line, static and unmoving. He straightens out one of his legs and casts his gaze across the room - this is all his now. The metal grows even colder beneath his fingers, the chill spreads down his arm until it makes its way to his chest. And icicles start to spike within his heart. 

He still feels nothing. 

He lets his spear fall, the clattering noise as it hits the ground and rolls down the steps just muted white noise to his ears. He carefully lowers himself down the next few steps, his hands reaching out to cradle the king's head and place it gently in his lap. He's ruined his hair, covered the blond canvas in handprint-shaped splotches of red. Youngjo takes a deep breath and sweeps the king's fringe away from his forehead - where he used to complain about being ticklish. He looks peaceful, the tension and stress dissolved from his muscles. He looks beautiful, _ethereal_ , glowing from within. 

And Youngjo was his angel of death. 

The king- no, _Geonhak_ stares back up at him with such adoration that it makes Youngjo's heart ache in his chest. He can't stand it. So he lifts two trembling fingers, soaked in a crimson he knows he will never be able to wash out, and closes Geonhak's eyes for the last time. 

"Goodnight." He whispers, voice barely audible, but he knows that Geonhak can hear him. 

He stands up stiffly as he lays Geonhak's head back on the marble steps. He turns sharply on his heel, his gaze fixed only on one thing - his crown. It had fallen to the side as he had killed Geonhak - killed his best friend - and it stares at him now with ruby eyes. _His_. His hands are still trembling as he picks it up with his fingertips, as if it will crumble into dust under his touch. It doesn't. But it's cold - cold and ornate and dangerous, just like him. And now it's as bloodstained as the hands that cradle it. 

He stalks towards the throne - _his_ throne, he reminds himself. Everything is his now and he forces himself to bask in satisfaction, enveloped by the moon's glow, as he sits down. He crosses his right leg over his left, resting the crown atop his knee as he runs his finger over its details, tracing them and committing them to his memory. 

He feels nothing, and he's just fine with that. 

He smiles down at Geonhak. 

Long live the king. 

**Author's Note:**

> comments/feedback appreciated!! ♡
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/jjxneus) ♡ [cc](https://curiouscat.me/jjxneus)


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